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Through Broken Reeds 



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WILL AMOS RICE 



'Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tones 
That idle winds to broken reeds impart." 

— E. R. Sill. 




BOSTON 
CHARLES H. KILBORN, Publisher 



f6i 
ft. 4. 



Copyright, 1889, 
By WILL AMOS RICE. 



PRESS OF CARL H. HHINTZHMANN, BOSTON, MASS. 



Zo Mbom tt flDap Concern. 

/} DREAD monarchs, on whose rocky coast 

My little boat has grounded, — let me stay ! 

Hold thy poised weapon : I'm but a wandering ghost 

Who thought it harmless to pause upon the way. 

Lift me ashore and see my eyes dilate! 

Thd > weak prom travel, feel that strength will grow, 
Too far from home, I'm sorry to relate, 

My little craft has floated to and fro. 

But since I'm here, please try to use me well, 
And 1 '11 repay you — sometime — somewhere; 

Perhaps as Druids pay, yet this I cannot tell, — 
I only know I've laid my feelings bare. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2010 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/throughbrokenreeOOrice 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

A Plea 9 

The Courier ■■ . 23 

The Song of Death . . . . . 25 

The Purple Hill 30 

Eventide 32 

My Lady 34 

A Song to the Central Grace . . . . . 36 

Just Why I Love Thee . . . * . . . . 38 

Before Love's Meeting . . . ■ . . . . 40 

My Star 41 

The Thistle Bird . . . .... . 44 

The Doubt Feast 45 

Common Property 55 

The Rush of Memories . ... . . . 58 

A Morning's Musings . . . . . . 60 

A Soliloquy 63 

Free Born 65 

The Return from the Swine-Herd - . . . . 67 

Suspected, I. and II 70 

5 



6 Contents. 

PAGE. 

Emancipation 72 

I Smile at Grief ........ 75 

Woman's Way 77 

Among the Reeds . . . . . . . . 81 

An Arrow 83 

To John Keats, I. and II 84 

My Faith 86 

Do You Remember . . . . . . . . 91 

At the Feet of a Statue 92 

Love 94 

At Death 97 

The Comer of the Night 99 

The Star Watch 101 

The Goodness of Man 103 

Nudity 10$ 

To "W. H. G." 106 

The Soul's Day . . . . . . . .107 

A View at Midnight 112 

A Hull 115 

A Face of Former Days 117 

On Seeing a Picture By J. Appleton Brown . . 120 

Reflected Love 122 

My Morning Walk 123 

Drusilla. — A Memory 124 

At Love's Board 131 

My Inheritance 132 

The Killing of the Elk 133 

Holy Kisses 141 



THROUGH BROKEN REEDS. 



THROUGH BROKEN REEDS, 



A PLEA. 



7 hardly dare to make the run, 

The goal in sight seems all too small ; 
Yet better should I venture all, 
Than never to have ventured none ? 

Well, I have made a stroke at last ; 
(A feeble one, I see it now, 
Still, in each sentence is a vow 

That in the foundry of the soul was cast.) 

9 



io Through Broken Reeds. 

This world is full of sad mistakes ; 
And though it's but a tale oft told, 
It never stales nor waxes old, 

But like the loves a freshness makes. 

Thus if a gleam in all of this 

Should chance to wake one thrill of joy, 
Perhaps, in kindness, the alloy 

You'll cast a-down some precipice. 



ii. 



I have not sinned because I thought 
In sinning could a joy be found ; 
Yet brighter seems each grassy mound, - 

From farther still the gems seem brought. 

He who counts but one day's bliss, 
And harvests all his sheaves for that, 
Had better seek the darkest vat 

Which has its birth in love's first kiss. 



A Plea. n 

I count them all in every season, 
The blackest clouds expel them not : 
The vilest tongues can never rot 

The diamonds of a thoughtful reason. 



in. 

Now to the markets of the world, 
Uncovered, that the light may show 
The good and bad, my wares I throw, 

And leave them, — one more flag unfurled, 

Unfurled before the people's gaze, — 
Or, rather, those who care to look, — 
I send this message and the book 

To idle out the laggard days. 

IV. 

If idleness be but an art, 

And living it the height of sin, 
I hope the praises I may win, 

Will come from those who have a heart. 



12 Through Broken Reeds, 

I will not storm the walls of Fame, 
For, storming in a peaceful time 
Would range the furies 'gainst my rhyme, 

And to my country be a shame. 

But if a thoughtful word will gain 
Admission to their parapets, 
I'll lowly kneel ; and no regrets 

I'll offer for the welcome rain. 

And neither do I wish your gold — 
Except enough for present needs : 
He is a leech who others bleeds, 

Rhyming when his heart is cold. 

Some sing for money and the power 
That comes with fame to ease the life ; 
I place my very soul in strife, 

And earn my living without dower ! 

Yet in my heart a passion burns ; 
I soar above the common herd, 
Perhaps a heavy, small-winged bird, 

That fathoms not its unknown yearns. 



A Plea. 13 

But if the ocean's depths were known, 
And line and lead had rested there, 
What need of all the wear and tear 

To fathom its deep-calling moan ? 



I sometimes see as oft I gaze, 

Those circling flights that I would take, 
Where all the circles of my wake, 

Seem melting into brighter days. 

But this is fancy's burning fire ; 
Beyond the earth and in the skies, 
I hardly dare to raise my eyes, 

Lest I should meet a harmful ire. 

I trust to thee, each critic friend, 
My all in life, — what I have done ; 
My morning only has begun, — 

At morning should my passion end? 



14 Through Broken Reeds. 

Whate'er thy verdict chance to be, 
Whate'er of merit in my song, 
Within my heart will echo long 

The music- strings of melody. 



VI. 



Oft in the darkness of my woe, 

When hope has but the veriest gleam, 
The flood-gates of Desire's stream 

Are closed when help to me might flow. 

But fate has changes all too deep, 
Too mystic for the eye to read, 
And listens not to hearts that plead 

On bended knee, or those that weep. 

My fate has been a wandering strain, 

Icarian bird of blackest hue, 

And, through the darkest midnights, flew 
As swallows when they presage rain. 



A Plea. 15 

And what I offer is so small 

A part of what I feel and think, 
That oft mid glooms my spirits sink 

Because I cannot paint it all, — 

Because I cannot tell my dreams 

In words that hold the truth and light ; 
For all my life I've walked in night, 

And caught to heart but mirror gleams. 

Pleading and weeping all in vain, 
No guide the rugged path hath shown ; 
No bright divining rod I own, 

Only the thorns that giveth pain. 

So, if my lyre notes are weak, 

And seem but random forms of speech, 
Loan me the strong arms of thy reach, 

And point the path I fain would seek. 



VII. 



When Autumn touches all around, 
(Believe me what I say is truth), 



1 6 Through Broken Reeds. 

The tinted flush of Winter's youth, 
Dwells in my heart, — a music sound. 

Within each golden leaved dell, 

Where threads a silvery stream or two, 
With all that's fair my spirits flew, 

And dreamed that life was good and well. 

Upon the hill, deep in the dale, 
Across the circling mead and moor, 
Along the ocean's sanded shore, 

Where lightenings flash amid the gale, 

The plain, the mountain topped with snow, 
Amid the wind, and in the sea, 
A Presence ever speaks to me, 

And beckons where I fain would go. 

Chained are my feet ; no wings have I ; 
I am a thing of earth and clay, 
Who marvels at the dawning day, 

And wonders what it is to die. 



A Plea. 17 

I wake to all the under-tow 

That surges in a mighty throng ; 

The mixture of the good and wrong, 
That all the breaths of scandal blow. 

I claim this much ; / see it all. 
But ah, sad fate ! I cannot tell, 
Though in my heart the language dwell, 

There's scarce an echo to my call. 



VIII. 

Along those shores that breathe of peace, 
Where rivers greet the sunny sand, 
And joy spreads far on every hand, 

I fain would walk and find release, — 

Release that comes with perfect bliss, 
To stay through nights of darkest gloom, 
(That are but pressings from the tomb, 

And leave their world to darken this) ; — 



1 8 Throtigh Broken Reeds, 

Release that wears not sorrow's crown, 
However bright the crown may be, 
Nor has an idle constancy, 

That holds beneath the gilt a frown. 

But let my wandering footsteps glide 
Along those shores that hold the light 
That never darkens when the night 

Has spread her wings o'er land and tide. 

Let all the press of worldly care 

Take wing and whirl away from me ; 
And let the mountains of the sea 

In cunning guise its wings ensnare. 

Along the pebbly ocean shore, 

Where laughing ripples hold their play 
With whirling sea-gulls all the day, 

Let my slow footsteps trespass o'er, 

And let the future be a calm 

With all the storms left far behind, 
Where all the musings of the mind, 

Slip tenderly, as psalm to psalm. 



A Plea. 19 



IX. 

When all the nights are clasped by June, 
And all the stars do scintillate, 
And everything has perfect state, 

And when my lyre has found a tune, — 

When over all the land is spread 
The subtle perfume of the flowers, 
And happy in their hidden bowers 

The chirping birds with night are wed ; 

When everything has sought repose, 
And only breezes are awake 
To guide the fancy for the sake 

Of what from fancy ever flows ; 

Then, somehow, doth my soul arise 
To thought within its house of clay, 
And wish to know that far away 

Beyond the limit of the eyes. 

When all the nights are overcast, 

And but the lightning's widening gleam 



20 Through Broken Reeds. 

Across the darkened heavens stream, 
And brings the day with silent blast, — 

When all the wide expanse of seas 
In mad endeavors vainly leap 
Far up each stationary steep ; 

And when the wind sweeps o'er the leas, 

Then, even 'mid the wildest glare 
Of earth and heaven, comes to me 
The sweet voice of my melody, 

And maddest storm is calm and fair. 



O dreaming soul ! whose unlit lamp, 
Swings midway 'twixt the end and now, 
What hope is cherished in thy vow ? 

What tear-drops fall that are not damp ? 

Were all the wisdom of the world 
Piled heavenward in a flaming tower, 
Could it reveal the hidden hour 

That in this clay this life unfurled ? 



A Plea. 21 

That flamed this little span of thought, 
That breathed in motion, joy and pain, 
And at the end to come again, 

And ask for all that it hath wrought ? 

And we must grant it ; for no power to stay 
The changing, changeless form of death 
Is vested in the mortal breath, 

Is held within our form of clay. 

We give it to thee ; we have sung 
The little song that birthed with us ; 
Thy coming, too, was ordained thus, 

Yet wasted are the roses flung ? 



XI. 



Along the up-hill aisles of fame, 
The roses are the thorns that prick 
The tender fibers of the quick ; 

Yet for the worthy food for flame. 



22 Through Broken Reeds. 

I'd count it joy to know the mask 
That hid me had a thousand bands, 
And needed all the iron hands 

Of time and patience for the task. 

I feel it deepest when I pause, 
As toilers resting from their toil 
Of fear and doubt, and know their soil 

Is yielding, and they voice applause. 

I feel it in each daily change, 
/ know the truth is at the core, 
I cannot ask for any more, 

Or lend my fancy wider range. 



The Cotirier. 23 



THE COURIER. 

T^O the Court of the Soul comes a memory from out 

of the mist, 
Thought's courier, clad in years past that were burned 

in years past, yet waits to be kissed. 
Are his lips not red with the heat of the flame ? 
Canst thou not see in the ashes the trace of a name ? 

The Gates of the Soul open wide ; 

He comes and enters within, 
A weakling, half-fledged, and would ride 

High up from the altars of sin. 
Hark ! he pleads ; hearest not his low tone at thy 

side? 
Wilt thou not let him abide ? 
Can his pleadings not win ?• 
Can the pout on his lips be mistaken for aught but the 

plead for a kiss ? 
Do you shun him? deny him his measure of bliss? 



24 Through Broken Reeds. 

See ! he frowns, you have slain by a look what the dag- 
ger of steel could not slay ! 

He has turned to a demon, high-horsed, and he seeks 
you as prey ! 

From the Gates of the Soul he rides out ! 

He has left in his wake the wrecked mansion of 

thought. 
As he rides, he turns, and flings back a flout, 
And he taunts with a cry from the imps of Hades 

caught. 



The Song of Death. 25 



THE SONG OF DEATH. 

T N this next room she is, sir. The door ? 

Oh ! pass through here, step lightly, though, the 
floor 
Is squeaky, and she sleeps. 
No, she won't wake, an angel keeps 
Close guard ; but it's best to show 
Due reverence. I could not go 
Where my worst enemy was laid 
Without half feeling that to thus invade 
Death's precincts, were irreverent. 
Folly ? Perhaps so ; yet who lent 
The stillness ? It is sacred then. 

That was her laugh you heard. When ? 

Why Tuesday week ; you know you spoke of it. 

I wonder it could flit 

So soon from you ; I mean 

The recollection. See, there she is, — between 



26 Through Broken Reeds. 

Those posts ; poor soul ! The robe ? Oh, yes ! 

Marks sent her that, I guess. 

Don't know him ? Pretty, isn't it ? 

He plays at George's. Yes, a splendid fit ; 

He knew her measure. Color? almost perfect. Now 

You paint in color ? Indeed ! I vow ! 

I thought you merely wished to look 

In, out of sheer curiosity of this old nook. 

So that's your purpose ; I think she'd keep three days' 

Sir. 
Ecking was here and gave me to infer, 
That he would come, but left no hold. 
So if you wish the preference, sir, I'll make bold 
(For a mere trifle), to keep it for you. 
A fine picture, this ! the sunlight working through 
To that off-side will help the plan somewhat. 
Too many painters follow in the same old rut. 
I'm glad there's one to lead a difference, 
Some artists really are so dense. 
Your easel might stand there ; that view 
Would take in all worth seeing. You knew 
Who shot her ? No ? That's queer ! 
Since many a time I've noted both you here ; 



The Song of Death. 27 

She was at George's too. Some light-headed fool, 

His heart wrapped up in fancies fresh from school, 

(So runs the story) was enamored at first sight. 

Neither do I, sir, but he was blamed. He had a right, 

Of course, to love, but not to kill. 

Almost perfect, think you ? You have skill 

If you can reproduce the mould 

Of that forearm and hand. I'm told 

They're solid, sir, — nearly a pound, I think ; 

That is, the two. Some would not pause to wink ; 

I keep close guard of them for fear 

A thief might enter. It would cost him dear 

Should I catch him at it. They were given her 

By Paulis, the baritone. So I should say, sir ; 

Her wrists do seem most too frail to bear 

Such heavy weights as constant wear ; 

Yet she's worn them from the moment they were pressed 

Upon her ; for his sake, I should say. It expressed 

How deep her feelings played. At least, that's how 

We ought interpret it, and disallow 

All other claims. I said, 

A fool, I may be wrong ; too soon at times we wed 

Our thoughts to loud expression. He 

And Paulis both were there ; by that, no doubt, you'll see 



28 Through Broken Reeds. 

They both had hopes, perhaps. Yet I would say 
She never lured them by false play. 

They both threw flowers at the song's close ; 

She bowed and smiled as one who knows 

A welcome is forthcoming. Then she stooped 

To pick the roses. Those bright locks looped 

In ringlets of pale gold about her brow. 

(You see how close the semblance is to my words now.) 

Paulis' she reached first, and then upthrew 

Her fine eyes' glance that shot one through and through. 

There was a hushed moment. Man, / saw it all ! 

The upraised arm, the polished steel, the flash, the fall, 

Poor fool ! he never knew his end, I ween, 

Nor how the rope came round his neck ; between 

You and me, my dear sir, I want my days to close 

More peaceful, Heaven knows ! 

It's the way you came, my friend, 
Looks different, though, because you send 
Your thoughts back to the way you entered. 
I suppose, sir, your thoughts are centered 



The Song of Death. 29 

On the picture-planning in advance, 

The scheme of color. Yes, Murray. By chance? 

No ? Seen him perhaps ? Well 

It's a good likeness and finely drawn. I don't buy to 

sell. 
I hung it there for show. Pictures I admire 
When they're good ; of poor ones I soon tire. 
Well, success. At ten, then, I'll be here. 

Poor soul ! alone upon her silent bier. 



30 Through Broken Reeds. 



THE PURPLE HILL. 



A HUNDRED tender notes were whirled 
Invisible through misty dells ; 
False Echo, dreaming, deftly hurled 

Them back in undulating, vagrant swells. 
One voice, long silent, found an answering mate, 
Robed in the purple of the night's estate. 



But was it voice or echo that I heard 
Soft melting o'er the twilit hills, 
Or but the rhyme of hidden rills, 

That vaguely half-lost memories stirred ? 

Or was it, — could it be some bird 

Half smothered in its own sweet trills ? 



The Purple Hill. 31 

Voice, echo, bird or wandering rill 

That brought lost memory from the sable Past, 
Come ! take thou this heart and hold it fast, 

And with thy warmth subdue its chill ; 
And with thy presence ever cast 

A halo round the purple hill. 



32 Through Broken Reeds. 



EVENTIDE. 

J | ARK ! o'er the meadow the cattle's soft low ; 
So gently it cometh, and slow, — 
Slow like the soft tread of years 
Which falleth and resteth as snow. 

Hark! it's the murmur of bells, 

Floating 'mid daylight and dark ; 

Faintly they tinkle and mark 
The approach o'er the fells. 

Now Night her pinions spreads, and shade 

Shroudeth the world in glooms ! 
All things grow unfamiliar, dim, then fade, 

While but the last, faint blooms 
Of dying day the west invade. 



Eventide. 33 

Now a deep splash, and then 

All is still ; across the fen 
A half-breathed low, as a mournful sigh 

Of winds adown the the glen. 



34 Through Broken Reeds. 



MY LADY. 

A ft Y lady, I saw you start and catch your breath, 

Within the door-way's dark recess. 
I doubt not that of me you saith, 

" There's one who favored my caress ! " 

My lady, a new one at thy bidding's come 
To praise you, hold you in his arms, 

As I have held you, — almost dumb, 
And dazzled by your winsome charms. 

My lady, no need was there to turn and flee, 

For my great love hath had its day. 
(I mean the love that pulsed for thee 

Hath pulsed to flame and burned away). 

My lady, I now could hold that hand of thine, 
And watch a smile part those red lips, 



My Lady. 35 

And not one fiber of my heart would pine 
To have me kiss their pouting tips. 

My lady, I fear that you have wrought a stain 
That your tears' flood can never wash away ; 

I dare not think how many hearts you've slain, 
Nor what great hopes to you have fallen prey. 

My lady, I saw you, noticed the quick look, 
Beseeching like, that fell from your gray eyes. 

I laughed ; I half feared then that you mistook 
My meaning, yours was of such surprise. 

My lady, my smile was spawned of deepest scorn, 
(Believe and trust me as you always did 

When in thy presence I have felt new-born, 
And never tarried when I learned thy bid). 

My lady, in one short year how old you've grown. 

Had I not seen it I had spurned the truth ; 
All save thy lips' red tinge hath flown : 

Thou art, my lady, aged in thy youth. 



2)6 Through Broken Reeds. 



A SONG TO THE CENTRAL GRACE. 

A T dawn thy wings are bathed anew 
With clear-spun colors of the day 
And chasings of the lingering dew 
Where lights reflect ; God's diamonds slew 
The rainbow colors for their prey. 

Up-soaring through the light apace, 

Thy bosom heaves with dreams that surge ; 
And Joy's supernal roses bathe thy face, 
While dimpling smiles each other chase, 
And into heaven's gladness merge. 

O hope, thy missions never end ! 

'Tis joy to thee to link each cry and thought, 
Or bending, touch the tender point, or send 
Thy presence when thou seemest dead, and mend 

Again the soul with longings fraught. 



A So?2g to the Central Grace. 37 

Each song that wings through meadows' sweep, 

Or roams far off on purple mountains high, 
Each flower that to the sun doth leap 
And breathes its incense to the soul so deep, 
With thee holds commune in each sigh. 

The fields thou walkest when Spring's green 

Hath clothed each bush with Nature's charms ; 
Beneath the bursting sod hath seen 
The planted seed shoot forth between, 
And gladly wave its baby arms. 

The gray-haired planter's smile content 

Is born of hope ; the world is large, 
Yet all of human love is spent 
On one small plot ; the heart pays rent 
To Hope slow-floating in a barge. 

Worlds stately wheel through spaceless space, 
Nor pause, nor veer, but onward go, 

As steadily as planets race, 

Wings hope beyond earth's rugged face, 
Nor leaves a trail of bitter woe. 



38 Through Broken Reeds. 



JUST WHY I LOVE THEE. 



JUST why I love thee it is hard to tell ; 

Thou art not handsome in the strictest sense, 
And yet thy face holds something so intense, 
That I am drawn to thee as by a spell. 



If thou wert gone from me — dead, — had ceased to 
dwell 
In mortal flesh, had passed to that dread Whence, 
Perhaps thine eyes with their broad innocence, 

Would hold me longest, since I loved them well ; 

Or, mayhap, thy sweet mouth, where all my kisses 
went, 
Or thy soft cheek that nestled close to mine, 
Might claim attention ; and thy smooth hands that 
often blent 
The veryjworkings of my soul with thine. 



Just why I Love Thee. 39 

Of them? Love ! with thee at present let me rest 
content, 
Nor ask me why, for who knows what makes the 
stars divine ? 



40 Through Broken Reeds. 



BEFORE LOVE'S MEETING. 

\ 17 HAT were the days before I saw thy face ? 

In looking back I scarce can see their dawn, 
And yet I know that surely, truly they were born 
And held aloof our meeting for a space. 
What was my life, and by whose grace 
Its leaden hours made myself forlorn, 
Till near the roadside strayed I, haggard and 
well worn, 
And fell exhausted, weary with the chase ? 

Ah, Love, those days were dark ! and yet no blame 
Should we attach to Fate's unseen decree, 

Else were unknown the bliss of meeting flame to flame, 
Our Eden of love's great purity ; 

Else were unknown the first soul-cry thy name 
Brought to my lips to utter musically. 



My Star. 41 



MY STAR. 

^17 HEN my star dawned 

In love's blue sky, 
On my soul fawned 
Hopes that were high. 
I felt my lease on earth expand, 
Till she and I went hand in hand, 
Fast hurrying onward through the land. 

A castle here, 

Another there 
We built. No tear 

Marred our dream fair ; 
So made we chamber, made we hall ; 
The castle parapets were straight and tall, 
While sweetest incense filled them all. 



42 Through Broken Reeds. 

Our only thought 

To build them high. 

And thus we wrought 

Our mansions by 

Strange drawings of a force unseen ; 

And round about left fields of green, 

Where silvery rivers danced between. 

A garden made we, 

Rose-embowered, 

Where daily played we 

Half o'erpowered 

By heavy perfumes falling round ; 

Oft the new moon looked in and found 

Two spirits resting on the ground. 

Then in the shade 

Of some old wood, 
We'd fain parade 
In gayest mood ; 
And every bird that heard our laugh 
One moment paused as tho' to quaff 
A sweeter song than his, by half. 



My Star. 43 

I would regret 

That here on earth 
We're born to fret 
For higher birth, — 
Did not my star look kindly through 
With smiles, from heaven's bars of blue, 
And tell me that my dreams were true ! 

From its high station 
Leagues removed, 
By radiation 
It has proved 
Beyond the smallest kind of doubt, 
How tender love is, and how stout 
The heart that weathers love's strange bout. 

I often watch it, 
And at night 
I often match it 
In fancy's flight, 
To some vague world in that great space 
Unknown to man of any race, 
Then of a sudden I see her face. 



44 Through Broken Reeds. 



THE THISTLE BIRD. 

T T E scarcely stirs the pollen off the thistle's crest ; 
He scarcely seems to move, yet round he goes, 
While his pure color in the distance shows, 
Till one know not if it be some flower dressed 
In palest gold, and of heaven blessed, — 
Or but some maple's leaf that blows 
Alway in autumn, till some zephyr, pitying, stows 
It 'mid some thistle's crown to rest. 

So thou, my love, I know not whence thou came, 
Nor what chill wind's unfostering care 
Hath blown thee and thy mute despair 

Safe to the sheltering harbor of my flame. 

But this my love, I know : henceforth my fare 

Is thine : for each hereafter life holds the same. 



The Doubt Feast. 45 



THE DOUBT FEAST. 

/^H, my princess, wouldst thou know 

The dream that I had dreamed as true ? 
Then fold thy wrap around thee — so, 

And I will slowly give it to you. 
Don't ask me whence or how it came, 

If night or day did give it birth ; 
My answers all will be the same : 

" Listen and judge it by its worth." 

Strange may it seem, yet doth not life 

A thousand strangest fountains spurt ? 
And is not man in constant strife 

To keep his mind above the dirt ? 
So, my princess, thou'lt not molest 

My flow of thought, however strange, 
Nor break upon me when I seem pressed 

For happy words to fill my range ? 



46 Through Broken Reeds. 

No ? Then I'll tell thee ; listen now, 
And find, if there, the hidden charm 

To help thee keep the sacred vow 
That folds thee tightest at alarm. 

I dreamed I'd lost amid the rush 
Of hurrying feet that came and went, 
And idly all their power spent 

Upon the wind of midnight's hush, 

Amid the vistas and the glow 

That slowly crept across the lawn, 
And slowly climbed to meet the dawn, 

And wider, wider seemed to grow : — 

Amid the vapors that o'er prest, 

And crouched and rolled along the shore 
And blotted out the light before 

The fleeing waves that never rest : 

I dreamed I'd lost the charmed tie, 
That kept my love from wandering far, 
And, fading fast, my guiding star 

Was melting deep within the sky. 



The Doubt Feast. 47 

In changing moods the spirit blew, 
A subtle substance in each thought : 
And wilder, weaker seemed my lot, 

And deep from darkest fountains drew. 

With restless hands each fleeting gleam 
I sought to hold in frantic grasp ; 
But all the senses felt the rasp, 

And horror-stricken was my scream. 

Pursuing I a phantom light 

Held in a phantom's hollow hand, 
I wandered far across the land, 

And sought to find it with a might. 

With every step I fainter grew, 

The heavens reeled, the earth was dank, 
The darkness deeper, deeper sank, 

And not a gleam of hope broke through, 

Till all my life was at an ebb, 

And all the sands were bare and gray, 
And every soul seemed but as prey, 

That floated to the subtle web ; 



48 Through Broken Reeds. 

- 

Till every summer thing hung low, 
And every voice was but a moan ; 
And on the shore I stood alone, 

With scarce a welcome to bestow ; 

And close behind me rose a cliff ; 
And on each side a dismal waste, 
Where purple shadows shadows chased, 

And laved the rocks that stood so stiff. 

And all before the angry sea • 
And I alone upon the shore 
Stood longing sea-ward, till high o'er 

My weary head a light broke free. 

Was this the guiding star returned 
To lead me where the tie-charm lay 
And bring again the vanished day 

That in this hell of night seemed burned ? 

I asked the thought with scarce a hope ; 
I followed where it cleft the night, 
And through the dimness of my sight, 

I saw a palace portal ope. 



The Doubt Feast. 49 

A joy that falleth late in years, 

An offering from the shrine of Love, 

A baby from the realm above, 
That cometh with a thousand tears 
Of happy hope fulfilled at last, 

Of murmurs to the bosom pressed ; 

A happy mother's boy caressed 
By holy love that broke a fast. 

A thousand times we watch the smile 

That settles in the changing eyes ; 

And cheeks that wear the crimson dyes 
Of color that does not defile ; 
The kicking feet, the patting hands, 

The little laugh that is a crow ; 

The silky hair that first does show 
A cunning feature 'neath its bands. 

We watch ; what hope takes wing 
And weaves a halo round its head? 
O Love, were all thy angers shed 

Before ye sent this offering ? 



50 Through Broken Reeds. 

We wait : a fuller life we see unfold ; 

The tie was strongest when 'twas weak ; 

Before the stranger's voice could speak, 
A thousand longings inward rolled. 

Thus when I saw the portal ope, 
And all the vast array of wealth, 
I felt that stealing in by stealth 

Was dawning for me some great scope 

Of supreme bliss to overflow ; 

And all the fret of something lost, 
Into the cowering Past I tost, 

And on the threshold bowed I low. 

Who taught the lips to utter prayer 
And breathe the holy hope of love, 
And left the waiting heart to prove 

That substance floated in the air ? 

We say, "Away my tempter with thy smile, 
'Tis but a weakness of the soul," 
Or, " He doth win the highest goal 

Who dallies at her feet awhile." 



The Doubt Feast. 5 1 

I dallied at the portal door ; 

I dared not enter lest a curse ; 

Before the splendor I felt worse, 
Than when the darkness pressed me sore. 
I waited for some sign to come, 

A hundred times I knew it came ; 

I felt the pulses of the flame, 
Yet by my doubts I stood as dumb. 

Could I return from whence I sprung, 
Out of my mute despair and woe, 
And suffer all the light to go, 

And hear again the mockeries rung ? 

I fled before the thought accursed ; 
I crossed the door-sill, entered in, 
When lo ! around me seemed to spin, 

A thousand pleasures for my thirst. 

I drank them in, lived drinking them; 

I now but sip that they may last ; 

And deep within me they have cast 
A beauty, as flower to the flower's stem ; 



52 Through Broken Reeds. 

And all the doubt that I had felt, 
And all the misery of the doubt, 
Is in the Past, was left without, 

Is circled by Oblivion's belt. 

And now, my princess, jewel-crowned 
By dimpled arms and basking eyes 
And warm-toned ankles, what surprise 

Sits on thy brow as if ye frowned ? 

Hast thou not found a meaning there 
To warm thy cheeks to ruddy glow, 
And in thy inner heart to stow 

The substance of a finer air ? 

I've led my fancy wilder chase, 

Have roamed where weakling feet would 
fall; 

Have heard the siren's luring call, — ■ 
Yet none so tender as thy face ; 
No eyes that called to me like thine ; 

No breath hath parted fairer lips ; 

No bee of rarer honey sips, 
Than Love when vowing songs divine. 



The Doubt Feast. 53 

I must not mantle lover-words, 

Nor shade the meaning I would tell, — 
Confess in openness ? Ah ! the spell 

Is dearer than the summer's birds, 

And bids me range unfrequent ways, 
To pluck a grass or bring a flower ; 
In tender depths to spend an hour, 

And dream as present future praise. 

And is not doubt a sacred thing — 
A" finer spell than plainest truth, 
And wakes an interest, and, forsooth, 

Releases soothings for its sting? 

What depths we range and cannot tire ! 
What depths and heights like billows rear ! 
The meanest hovels we compare 

With heavenly mansions' boasting spire ! 

And has it not a stronger glare, 

The light from groping in the dark ? 
And does it leave the love more stark, 

The soul, to find a soul is there ? 



54 Through Broken Reeds. 

Yet after all a word is pain 
Or pleasure as we take it first ; 
The germ some clod of earth has nursed, 

What it was once 'twill be again. 



Common Property. 55 



COMMON PROPERTY. 

CO faithful thy portrait is, 

Tha^ were I blind, as Love is said to be, 
Methinks I still would know 

That the glad sun had kissed your face to me ; 
That his hot breath had breathed your lips upon, 

And merged them deep within that flame, 
Which, years ago, did warm this heart of mine, 

And kindle in me that wild hope of fame. 

Thus each outline, curved in subtle grace, 

Recalls some pleasure past when you did wear 
So lightly the sorrows of your childhood years, 

While the same sheen still clasps thy hair, 
And the same smile, not proud, still curves 

Those lips that oft, — so oft I kissed. 
Then no doubt assailed my castle walls, 

And o'er my broad fields there hung no mist. 



56 Through Broken Reeds. 

But now the day 's gone, and the Night 

That strikes a terror to my breast 
Has fallen round me. From within a cry 

Mounts upward, and a wild unrest 
Clings like a shroud about my heart ; 

For as I walked the street where countless foot- 
beats fall, 
Saw I a lustful crowd that gazed upon 

Thy well-known features, spell-binding all. 

Great God, my angel's fallen ! Sin hath won. 

By show of wealth her virtue's turned about. 
O heart of mine, that some swift bolt of heaven 

Could smite me senseless, and my reason rout ! 
Not that I love thee less ; not that I think of thee 

As harlot to some base man's use, 
For oh ! too deep thy tender memories dip 

That I should wound them by my thought's abuse. 

And now — thou art — property — for all. 

Apart — our footsteps — echo — as we move — 
through life. 
My brow seems hot ; a shiver curves its way, 

Chilling as does the keen-edged knife 



Common Property. 57 

That fancy uses. I cannot think you gone ; 

Death were a preference to this mad thought. 
Look up ! fond eyes ; lips, may I kiss again ? 

O sweet pictured face,~that thou wert what thou 
art not ! 



53 Through Broken Reeds. 



THE RUSH OF MEMORIES. 

'"THEY crowd about me at the day's close ; 

I see them in my pathway — stern. 

Their eyes like fires in heaven do burn 
And yearn 
To hold me in repose. 

Frail mortals of an engulfed Time, 
Past frailities the earth hath known ; 
Seed of a mighty harvest sown 
And thrown 

Amid the furrows of another clime. 

Lost hopes, unanswered, heart-rent prayers, 
Illusive gleams of wit and merry jest — 
These soul-born memories to the breast 
Oft pressed : 

Such are the tokens they claim as theirs. 



The Rush of Memories. 59 

At midnight they watch me from the wall. 

The chime of clock- struck hours cannot change 
The star-pierced darkness, nor their range 
Of strange 

And luring calls that do not call. 






6o Through Broken Reeds. 



A MORNING'S MUSINGS, 

T WALKED abroad, the sun came o'er the plain, 

His eastern splendor awakening thoughts grown cold : 
I saw sweet flowers bestrewing the grassy main, 
And, in almost childish glee, I gazed on them again ; 
And whilst I looked the mists of night were slain, 
And morning dawned with gleams of silver and of gold. 



I stopped and looked around ; all motion ceased ; 

And to me came a world of troubled thought ; 
My heart which seemed so still again increased 
Its palpitations, and words held dumb were now released ; 
I viewed in wonder this glory of the East, — 

This grand magnificence of nature wrought. 



A Morning s Musings, 61 

"And this," I said, "is mom; these flowers lend 
A perfumed breath to lull the senses by; 

These breezes, floating through yon meadows, send 

A lasting pleasure as they ascend 

From earth to heaven, and tend 

To lift our thoughts to Him on high." 

Close by my side a little flower grew, 

Its many colors vieing with those of morn ; 

Its petals still were moist with evening's dew, 

Mirroring within its heart high heaven's blue, 

And, as beneath my foot its slender form I drew, 

I felt that to be crushed all things are born. 

" Alas ! " I sighed, " man 's but a slender reed, 

Who bows to Death's cold, grasping hand, 
And flees before his breath as Byron's steed, 
Which flew the Steppes o'er with reckless speed, 
Bearing, lashed to his side by vengeance's creed, 
Mezappa, held by tight-drawn band." 

" And what is life," thought I, " that we should hug so 
close, 
And fain like some rare gem to keep it here ? 



6z Through Broken Reeds. 

Tis but a stream that through a desert flows 
A vast tide's ebb that comes and goes 
At last to sink in sweet repose, 

Somehow, somewhere, clarified and clear. 



A Soliloquy* 63 



A SOLILOQUY. 

DERHAPS I've never felt the keen desire 

Born in some souls to consummate some feat 
Worthy to page a history or ope a lyre 

To impassioned splendor, and enjoy the treat. 

Who knows ? not those unused to me, 

For, surely, if my friends still doubt my ways, 

How can they ? we cannot gauge the seeds of the 
To Be, 
Nor early lavish on unstinted praise. 

Should we, what disappointment were for us ? 

Not always, to be sure, but then it comes, 
And once is all sufficient ; they adore us 

When our fingers show them they are not thumbs. 



64 Through Broken Reeds. 

They take us at our word, sometimes, then spurn 
us; 
They twist us forward and they bend us back. 
How many sleeve-laughs do they earn us ! 
I must confess they're highly learned in the 
knack. 



Free Born. 65 



FREE BORN. 

T F half my years had free from sorrow been, 

And grim Want's eyes had not exchanged with 
mine, 
What wondrous flowers had I carved for men, 
Upward twining and never to untwine ! 

If all my footsteps could have claimed the path 
Leading straight forward to my mind's high goal, 

Within my inner precincts would have sprung no 
wrath 
To mock the finer feelings of the soul. 

If some large hand had pulled the purple on 
My infant limbs that kicked with sturdy grace, 

Perhaps the fine-haired sons to fashion born 
On bended knee would envy me my place. 



66 Through Broken Reeds, 

If — but fie ! who cares to know the if ? 

I am free-born, at least this is enough for me. 
Come, Nature, of thy domain I'd sniff, 

Nor catch me lolling near proud fashion's tree. 



The Return from the Swine-Herd. 67 



THE RETURN FROM THE SWINE-HERD. 



/"^ OD of my one score years, 

Why in this breast these pains ? 

Why in this heart such fears ? 
Never a hope sustains, 

Never a face but leers, 
Never a voice that's true : 
Now I have turned to you. 

Hast thou power to drive from me 

The weakness of body and mind ? 
Is the strength of your arm as free 

As the gush of a mighty wind ? 
I am lost in immensity, 

I am dead to all but a few ; 

I am lost to the world, — to you ? 



68 Through Broken Reeds. 

I crave but one moment's plea ; 

Art thou good thou wilt listen and judge. 
I have sinned, — done folly, yet we 

Are but clay and thy nudge. 
I would ask that thy sentence on me 

Be commuted, else I may construe 

All goodness as lacking in you, 

I would ask that my days be made long, 
I have faith that the end will be bright ; 

My prayer is to grow and be strong, 
To see and to know thy light, 

To mingle and be of thy throng. 

I have suffered much pain, — now renew 
My flesh and my faith in you. 

Let the oil of thy hand drop fast 

On the pain that shrieks in my breast ; 

Let the voice of a hope float past, 
Till I know that my life's not a jest ; 

Let thy presence a bright halo cast, 
So I'll see both the old and the new, 
So I'll strive to be brave and reach you, 



The Return from the Swine-Herd. 69 

For oh, God of my darkened years, 
My faith has been small and ill-shaped, 

And bitter the fall of my tears, 
While devilish faces have aped, 

And hideous cries reached my ears ; 
And now that a spark to me's flew 
Will its flame^lead me onward to you ? 



yo Through Broken Reeds. 



SUSPECTED. 



FJ AINT hearted nature forcing a crimson tint 
Up from the throat to suffuse all the face 
And bow the head in shame at the disgrace 

Conveyed to all by the low-toned hint. 

Why art thou not strong to bear this stint, 
O cowering heart, and by fearless eye erase 
This charge that signals thee as base, 

And steals a coin from out thy sacred mint ? 

Hark ye ! I have read thy secret thought, 

And know just when the quivering lips had made 

Fain to tell with eyes full to the lids, 

The full-souled secret of thy unenvious lot ; 

But still witheld for fear thy tears had played 
Sad havoc in the heart that holds thy bids. 



Suspected. 7 1 



11. 



Tut, tut ! throw off this lethargy and stand 
With fearless eye before thy God and man. 
With all thy might cast hence this accursed ban, 

And take thy fell accuser by the hand. 

Thine it is to counter this command, 
And level dustward, and with smile not wan 
To say : " Master, thou art wrong ; I can 

And will release mys If from this foul brand." 

Then will the world with many smiles approve, 
And thou wilt feel the essence of a newer life 

Surge through thy veins, and lift thy heart 
To higher joy and rarer forms of love. 

Thou wilt feel girded for the after- strife, 

And count as naught the days before this recent 
start. 



72 Through Broken Reeds. 



EMANCIPATION. 



OEHOLD ! the world hath smiles and bows, 
Earth seems to gladden to the sight, 
The day is never gloomed by night 
Since I have made my manhood vows. 



Life's phases flicker on my gaze ; 

Dim future 's half revealed to me ; 

I catch the glimpse of far-off sea 
On which I'll pass my after days. 

A- down the busy marts I go, 

And Self in youth strides on beside, 
Like fountain head and boundless tide 

That by strange chance together flow. 

The world doth wear a brightening hue ; 

Each color hath a charm for me ; 

In mind the waves of ecstacy 
Are peopled with a brilliant crew. 



Emancipation, 73 

The west side of life's line hath dawned, 
The east hath slipped beyond recall ; 
And dim and dark in Memory's hall, 

Strange gleanings of my youth are spawned. 

I see the house that knew me well, — 

That held my secrets when a boy, 

And leaped in heart at every joy, 
Or stood in gloom when sorrow fell ; 

The trees that shaded roof and tower, 
And trickled sunshine on the panes ; 
And wildly veering weather-vanes, 

That glistened in each thunder-shower ; 

The garden walls where grape-vines trailed ; 

The kennel with its tenant dead ; 

The flowers in their tidy bed ; 
The dark-green lattice often scaled ; 

The long gray walks where weeds were kept 
From green encroachments on the sand ; 
The cedars where the song-birds planned, 

And 'mid the foliage hopped and leapt. 



74 Through Broken Reeds. 

Within, the spiral stair-way, carved and bold ; 
The long, dim hall ; my little room 
That holds my childhood, as the tomb 

Holds all of life so briefly doled. 

All this when youth was past I saw, 

And manhood gained its primary place ; 
And turned to all a bearded face, 

Where lay no trace of puerile flaw. 



/ Smile at Grief. 7$ 



I SMILE AT GRIEF. 

T TPON the threshold of my joy, 
^ Grief, crowned with all that's bright and fair' 
And looking as a maiden coy, 
Who pauses at the altar stair, — 

Watching with eyes that hold the glow 

Of fiery passions 'neath the lash ; 
Which bubble up and overflow, 

And at her love affections dash : 

Upon my threshold pauses she, 

And waits for me to show some sign. 

I give it not ; my ecstacy 

To one more worthy I'll resign. 

Her smile is as the spider's web 

Decked with the crystals of the night ; 



y6 Through Broken Reeds. 

And cometh as the flow and ebb 
Of tides that have no other flight. 

So yet awhile I'll keep my joy, 

Nor hold it lightly ; but as some gem 

That sparkles rich without alloy 
I'll wear it in my diadem. 

I smile at grief, and men all ask : 

" What wondrous treasure do you hold ? " 

Yet did they guess how hard the task — 
How long the weary days seemed doled, 

They would not envy me my smiles, 
Nor thicker thorn my Alpine way ; 

But marvel how Grief's many wiles, 
Could find me smiling day by day. 



Woman s Way. J7 



WOMAN'S WAY. 

T T OW had I made it known, 

By what occult power forced to speak 
Those words that in my heart had grown — 
Those words that Love had sown, 
In that ill-visioned week ? 

All seems a dream that came at night, 

And, like a dream to vanish with the morn. 

That yesterday did seem so bright 

When bathed within the light 

That showed the holy where Christ was born. 

Then came that silence to which all pay 

So much attention, and which to love is pure : 

It joins the hearts as soft winds cool the day, 
And so all thoughts are one in love's sweet 

colloquy, 
And touch the soul so softly, yet so sure. 



78 Through Broken Reeds. 

And in that silence our minds do know, 

That which our hearts do long to say ; 
That mysterious completeness which seems to grow 
Spontaneous, and through the veins to flow 
Like sparkling waters at the close of day. 

She broke the stillness, and with a gentle sigh 
She raised her timid eyes unto my own ; 

Then, as if her mind had formed a question and 
reply, 

She dropped them ; though with me no need deny, 
I felt their power more than love's soft tone. 

" My Lilian," I said, " the night is getting chill, 

And though I fain would linger here, 
I do so now quite much against my will, 
So let's return, — this dampness, love, will kill, 
And we must harbor strength; so come, my 
dear." 

Thus arm in arm we loitered back again 

Beneath those shades where first I met 
This love who soon would give me pain ; 



Wornaris Way. 79 

We wandered, yes, we wandered back again, 
And in the darkness there I felt her cheeks all 
wet. 



But this is dead past ; of years ago a score, 

And sere as autumn's leaves my face has grown ; 

Yet oft I see her as handsome as of yore, — 

Tall, stately, — a woman to adore. 

I held her dearest, then — now ? well, years 
have flown. 

I never envy him, though I took my chance. 

I lost at love the same as whist or any game. 
He won ; I lost. Mine is a broken lance, 
And one might know it at half a glance, 

I don't conceal it for I feel no shame. 

Yes, I must plod on, not stand and moan my fate, 
Else would I make my life a flame-white hell, 

And always find a reason for a drunken state, 

Or plead an excuse for my being late. 
But what tone is there in a broken bell ? 



80 Through Broken Reeds. 

So don't waste pity on such as I, 

I do not need it ; I have lived too long. 
She has been happy ; my aims were low, not high, 
And love's swift current has run the fountain dry ; 
So let me go beguiling self in song. 



Among the Reeds. 8 1 



AMONG THE REEDS. 



DRONE on the bank, while round me rustling leaves 

Bear testimony of the wind's long stretch ; 
'Tis only I, the dreamer, who sees the garnered sheaves 
That stand waist-deep and which no men fetch. 



Up breathes a little whisper from the shore, — 

'Tis not of Trade, though trade's white wing gleams 

farther out ; 
I scarcely hear, and yet I ask the waves for more, — 

For answer, they beat the pebbles round as in a flout. 

Ah, ye tall reeds that sway all summer long ! 

Ah, ye limp waves that bathe their gleaming sides ! 
Long held a captive amid the swaying throng 

I've dreamed ; my dreams lilt as the tides. 



82 Through Broken Reeds. 

Poor worm of earth am I, haunting the quiet nooks ; 

Shorn of all glow suffused by colors dun ; 
No summer sunsets, — wintry with dead-tree looks, 

And songs that never felt the central sun. 

Scarce of this life seem I ; dead to the millions' eyes ; 

The spider's gauzy web less frail than I. 
My world ? the space betwixt these reeds and yonder 
skies. 

My purpose ? as the fates may will it ere I die. 



An Arrow. 83 



AN ARROW. 

/^vH, the wide eyes that cannot see, 

And the full brain tha never knows, 
But vaguely, blindly, wandering, goes 

Backward, forward, unthinkingly. 

Slow to catch the glimmer on the sea, 
Slow to breath the air that stows 
Sweet life within the dungeon's close ; 

Slow to think of sunsets tenderly. 

Pardon, I beg, for pointing this at you ; 

To the arms' full length the bow was drawn, 
And if the arrow straight the distance flew, 

Pluck from thy heart, and charge it to my brawn 
Haply the centre reached : if so, you knew 

That I would no deadly malice spawn. 



84 Through Broken Reeds. 



TO JOHN KEATS. 

1. 

T MUST a line, dear Keats, thy memory tend ; 
Tho' poor, 'tis only so because my lips 
And pen fail to convey the feeling that deep-dips 
In holy reverence. You will forgive the words I send ; 
For what are mere scratches here, when at the fountain's 
end 
The pure crisp honey clogs and over fine expression 

tips? 
That thou art great is known, since thy full ships 
Bear cargoes of pure thought wherever they may wend. 

From me, a weakling among so many men of note, 

Perhaps this boldness may be frowned upon ; 
And yet the Widow's mite pleased Him ; she dealt 
Out love, respect and deep esteem ; each fiber near, — 
remote, 
Bowed low before the Sovereign. So, tho' some may 
scorn, 
If thou art pleased, I'll deem all blows unfelt. 



To John Keats. 85 



11. 

Not that others have told your greatness to me 

Do I write, for oh ! the hours that my heart lay close 

to thine 
Are numerous. I've felt their beatings mingle at the 
holy shrine, 
While all my pulses throbbed expectantly. 
Dear bard whose soul illumes each thought, — to thee 
I owe a world of pleasure. At thy board thy wine 
Has made me dizzy with delight. Around thy neck 
I'd twine 
My arms and suffer all that you might suffer willingly. 

For had I lived when you were here and knew 
All that I know now, none would have sought 
More closely for thy comfort, nor tried to ease thee 
with a word 
Than I. But it were folly to look back and brew 
O'er what might have been ; thy battle has been 

fought, 
And victory — ah! thy victory — all the world has 
heard. 



86 Through Broken Reeds. 



MY FAITH. 

T DON'T know what death means, nor dare I think 

Of all the many fancies my mind consumes. 
There must be somewhere, though, an after state, but 
where, I shrink 

From saying. 'Tis well that life resumes 
Its sway, its clash, its many wiles and quirks, 

Just at the moment when one seems eaten 
With fearful thirst of knowledge. We know life shirks 

The body, — goes away — but at this point ^we're 
beaten. 
One cannot go beyond, and dig and delve, or pry 

The secret from dear dumb lips. 
If there be life again for those who die, — ■ 

If death is, as men say, the power that slips 
The veil which darkens mortal vision back, — 

We each must wait in turn till life doth cease 
Ere we can press the feet upon that unknown track. 



My Faith. 87 

Life is a tenant fearful of his lease ; 

Yet none can ever occupy the cell 
But his own self ; and, when he leaves it, quick decay 

Turns it back to dust, 'tis well ! 
Nature sees further than mortal vision can. We pray 

For light, that something may reveal the latent power 
Which governs birth and all its actions. 

But vain our longings, it remains unknown ; the hour 
Of our coming and our going's shrouded deep; it shuns 

A contact with our mortal ways, lies covered 
As a flower's seed within the womb of earth, 

And no prayer, however fervent it hath hovered 
Up from yearning soul, hath ever one ounce of wisdom 
brought. Dearth 

Of knowledge, wrapt in a void of gloom, always, the 
soul 
Beats against its barriers of flesh, hoping against hope 

That some weak point may yield the wished-for goal. 

Some there are, who claim to know — have seen ; whose 
scope 
Of sapient sense touches the deep profundity of space ; 
Whose marvelous words are wells of inspired thought 



88 Through Broken Reeds. 

From which the thirsty ought to sup ; who have stood 
face to face 
With God upon His parapets, and from thence have 
brought 
First handed and unalloyed Truth, white robed as a 
ship. 
But ah ! their great wisdom, fine rhetoric, can never 
touch here ; 
They know of death what I know ; neither more nor 
less. They slip 
Where some stand firm, stand where others fall. 
Through fear 
Some are conquered, — bend their necks to the stroke 
Death deals ; yet wish to pass unseen ; are afraid 
Of the depth of night, and call it — faith. Mere 
smoke 
That blinds for a time, — since the duty's been paid, 
Then dissolves, leaving emptiest air in its place. 

Don't deem my faith palsied, — a swallow's swift flight 
The breadth of my hope. I see through the land a 
benevolent face 
That transports me beyond the pains of the night, 



My Faith. 89 

That leaves a wide margin to stand on, — a handle to 
grasp, 
A something to die for, unknown though it be. If I 
reach 
By my life the merit of death, — if I clasp 
The hand of a stranger and guide him along, — teach 
Him the way, perform my duty of man unto man, 
I fear not the end with its close-fitting mask, 

Since a confidence perfect points to an infinite plan ; 
And a life robed in its faith is a pleasurable task 

And its finish draws the past to itself ; not an atom 
is lost 



That ought to be saved. Men spade for some pleasure 
To occupy time, not heeding that with the clay's cost 
Enough is thrown in to round up the measure. 

Then I have my own doubts, my convictions, as men 
ought and do ; 
I grant to some teachings they're utterly false, and, 
granting, 
Have I not the right to claim that to others they're 
true? 



go Through Broken Reeds. 

Hope never is stilled ; like heat it brings panting, 

And faith does not mould to the form most frequent 
in use ; 

It comes as a wave to some, ebbing and flowing. 
To me it's an infant : I pray no abuse 

Will deform it, will crush it, will hinder its growing. 



Do Yon Remember? 91 



DO YOU REMEMBER? 

\\0 you remember when we stood alone 

Beneath green boughs and August skies, 
When I with all a lover's love 

Did gaze deep down within thine eyes ? 

And you, alone, were sweetly, smiling, 

One hand placed tenderly in mine, 
Ah ! how well do I remember, — 

The birds were singing, the sun did shine ! 

And then, once more we stood, — 

This time to part, to burn our young life's ember, 
No birds were singing, no sun was shining, 

Love, do you remember ? 



92 Through Broken Reeds. 



AT THE FEET OF A STATUE. 

T ONLY ask of thee one smile — one look 

That Love begets, — one fragrant breath 
Thy presence wrought; and I would brook 

A thousand furies, aye ! court death 
To win but one ; yet no device 

Will move. Immovable thine eyes and sealed lips - 

They are but art ; thy finger tips, 
Art also ; thy soul — an idle caprice. 

Nude, but for the covering Shame lent 

To Eve. Filled with the veins 
Where blood floweth not, nor life ; not passioned. 
Dreamed of by night ; by day beheld and fashioned. 

Born of a soul, — yet soulless ; labor and pains 
All on the surface, — against it spent. 
Deemed above sin — sinless ; yet stay! to sin unrisen, 

Age upon age, mite upon mite alike powerless. 



At the Feet of a Statue. 93 

Dreams, desires, touch of the chisel impotent and 
wasted, 
For still in the cells of thy prison 

Voiceless thy voice is, thy being dowerless, 
Life and its birth-pains, afar and untasted. 

Fain would I redeem thee, — release, 

Breathe soul and power in thine eyes ; 

With wand of the wizard touch thee, and thy guise 
Fling to the winds, and with perfect love my own ap- 
pease. 



94 Through Broken Reeds. 



LOVE. 

A ND have I not broken many laws 

That bound men's souls to some fantasy or 
dream, — 
Some hidden, death-like passway in the brain, 
Where surging faces of the Past, like fireflies dart and 
train, 
Then die away, save for a hurried gleam 
That cleaves the tissues and snatches recollection from 
Death's jaws? 

Have I not turned the tablets men unfurled 

To other uses than those to which 
They first were drawn ? loosened the film 
That covered secrets of the earth till all that once was 
dim 

Stands out in bold relief ? delved from ditch to ditch 
For hidden remnants of a viewless world ? 



Love. 95 

Certain untruths have I not exposed ? 

Laid bare the crowning efforts of minds of sin, — 
Mixed with life's food a cordial of vast might, 
And let, through crevices of reason, a strange new light 

Powerful to reveal the thought within 
The delicate fibres of a brain composed ? 

The stars that clothe their mystic wanderings 

In walls of white-hot flame, to me have made 
Confessions ! Did I not tell how swift they move, 
What atmosphere surrounds each seething mass, — and 
prove 
That those are straying which once were deemed so 
staid 
And steady : that all have subtle panderings ? 

And when I confess my love is more sure 

Than human laws, — deeper than world-plowed space, 
Truth personified ; thus when I'd stretched my whole 

life's hope 
To bridge a chasm for thee to pass, and doing, ope 

For thee a pleasure to pinch with pain my face, 
Would not it prove sufficient thy very soul to lure ? 



g6 Through Broken Reeds. 

If when I confess, my heart like some stars 
Is wrapped in tongues of flame, — not mute, 

Senseless tongues, but pregnant with immortal thought, 

Ready to teach to thee what love's red furnace taught — 
One willing to learn a beggar's wail, or the voice of a 
lute, 

Or the hectic red of the planet Mars, — 

Could you doubt, or if you did, 

Would it lessen your love ? Would it make you cling 
To a mountain of rock to avoid a fear 
Seeming to shout from afar, then crowding so near 

That your soul would turn, and, like a leaf quivering, 
You'd stand half dead awaiting its bid ? 

If it would, speak out and let me know ; 

Let a faithful answer for once go down 
From age to age as precedent. Don't stand dumb and 

attempt to be shy ; — 
But it wouldn't ? Amen ! no doubt in that eye, 

In that smile no fear, on that brow no frown. 
And now like planets afire, through space we'll go. 



At Death. 97 



AT DEATH. 

"tl 7"ASTE not fine marble o'er my grave — 

Build not to me a senseless monument of stone ; 
The earth that 's last to hold me 's all I crave : 
I'll meet death like a warrior brave, 

And never shall man hear grumbling in my tone. 

Warm words burn not cold marble's side, 

And never deeper sink than when first made ; 

And stone, at best, can claim but chilling pride ; 

So, when I die, let all such nonsense slide, — 

And feed the sparrows with what else were paid. 

I do not slur the hand that carves such shapes, 

Nor deem it folly to learn the sculptor's ways ; 
Men's tastes are varied, tho' when thought escapes, 
I grant 'tis better to carve gods than apes ; 
Yet I prefer remembrance to such praise. 



98 Through Broken Reeds. 

I only wish two slabs of modest size, — 

To mark my length and tell the name I bore. 
When man is swept to where no man's eyes 
Can see, — where present life would be surprise — 
Two simple stones, like these, can hold life's score. 

But flowers, grasses, leaves — all things that show 
The workmanship of God, — place everywhere, 
For these I love ; I'd have small children throw 
Such tributes to me when the reign of snow 
Lays pallid cheeks close to my bosom there. 



The Comer of the Night. 99 



THE COMER OF THE NIGHT. 

T 'VE never faced one dream of mine 

That lured me with its yellow dross ; 
I've never grasped the slender hand, 
That beckoned like a fairy's wand, 
And bade me the abyss to cross. 

I only hope that I shall see 

Those deep brown eyes half filled by tears. 
Too wide from cliff to cliff to leap : 
The beetling heights to climb so steep, 

That dreaming, I am awed by fears. 

There, like a half-formed thought it is, — 
My dream, — my Comer of the Night ; 

There the white robes flutter in the wind, 

Like fancies passing in the mind 
Of some philosopher in flight. 



ioo Through Broken Reeds. 

How it eludes me when I reach for it ! 

Thin air it is my nimble fingers crush, 
And not the real, true substance it doth seem ; 
Frightened, I wake, and trembling count my 
dream, 
While all its vagaries flit through me with a 
rush. 



The Star Watch. 101 



THE STAR WATCH. 

T^HERE is no blot upon my life to mar 

The wide-souled beauty of my dream of God ; 
For in the boundless space of ether gleams a star, 
That cleansed my coming from the very sod. 

How keen I watch it through the pulsing night ! 

Its every twinkle to my soul does thrill ! 
And, as I fix my mind upon the awful flight, 

I read the wisdom of God's large will. 

Long by the casement, like a monk at prayers, 
I lean my thoughts against its blessed ray; 

While, one by one, I mount the unseen stairs 
Which upward wind to the Eternal Day, 



I02 Through Broken Reeds. 

Till in deep thought I seek repose, 
All wearied by the vigil of my trust ; 

And to the eastward, rich with crimson glows, 
I see the morn caress the old earth's crust. 

Even in sleep its beauties still remain, 

And quick the mind to leap the fearful space ; 

And while the day full half the earth does pain, 
I dream of heaven and the star's pure face. 



The Goodness of Man. 103 



THE GOODNESS OF MAN. 

A LL good men learn their goodness by their power 
to see 
To what great depths the balm of kindness goes ; 
Devotion to a cause brings subtilty, 

And kindnesses in all subtile hearts repose. 

Whatso dwelleth in the heart of man, 

It sometime finds its way outward to the air, 

And be it of evil or of good, it must stand the scan 
Of world-eyes ; if good how great its share ! 

A good man, methinks, acts as a drop of oil 
Cast upon the tides when winds blow high ; 

His own hue smooths out anger to its last coil, 
And but a single finger-touch will make it die. 



104 Through Broken Reeds. 

All things take color from the brooding mind. 

The world would reek with gloom were all minds 
dark; 
How lovely to perceive the cheerfulness of thought 
behind 
The echoing gladness of some soaring lark ! 



Nudity. 105 



NUDITY. 

T SEE but beauty in the naked form, 

The beauty artists love and purest thoughts admire ; 
Nor greed of lust nor lechery can worm 

From me the smallest flamelet of a sinful fire. 

I am but mortal, yet have power of will 

To clutch both hands about the panting throat 

Of Passion, and hold her hot breath still, 

And stifle every sigh that breathes a wanton note. 

Who cannot look on God's supremest work, 
And see wise love in every graceful turn, 

Is dead to beauty ; — only evils within such lurk, 
And round the soul the fires of passion burn. 



io6 Through Broken Reeds. 



TO "W. H. G." 

\f EEN priest of nature with thy double powers' stroke 
Opening to view the varied woodland's charms 
With aught beneath thy gaze, we thank thee for thy 
alms 
Of gracious words that tender, boyish memories awoke. 
Here, in the mind's eye, the sturdy oak 

Waves its wide limbs and chants its bosky psalms ; 
There the dense pine, boasting the storms and calms, 
And all around the mild-eyed, nimble-moving folk. 

Well art thou equipped for this thy supreme joy; 
And we, like honey bees with thoughts athirst, 
Wait to sip the nectar of thy by-way's lair, 

That yields up riches which the winds do cloy 
Thy soul with, till it needs must burst, 
And scatter all its sweetness everywhere. 



The Soul's Day. 107 



THE SOUL'S DAY. 

T ALWAYS feel at the close of the week, 

A load of wearing, mechanical pain, 
Removed from back ; my thoughts all seek 

The morrow intuitively, — earth seems new again, 
And I draw a full, lung-satisfying breath, 

While my poor soul bursts its fetters with joy, 

And the week of care but leaves a boy, 
Ready to grant the heart's desire, — 
To play with love — as I would with fire ; 

Or, perhaps Tve a dream that reaches higher \ — 
One to live after the stroke of death. 

It may seem a mite that I have to do, 

When placed at the side of some men's work ; 

Yet I push and haul ; but the soul sinks through. 
The body still weaves tho' the soul does shirk 



108 Through Broken Reeds. 

Tho' my eyes are away beyond the walls, 

I weave my life and my living earn ; 

But the quick blood in the arteries burn, 
And sounds that my comrades never hear 
Pulse, pulse, within till they reach the ear, 

And I stand stock-still with a look not near, 
Then, — a swift jar, and the real world brawls. 

I catch up the thread and the shuttles fly ; 

The cloth of the earth grows fine, grows white, — 
But the fabrics I weave in my bit of sky, 

Are spun of dreams not born at night, — 
Not seen amid flashes of fitful sleep. 

I claw and hammer, — hope comes and goes, 

The ocean rolls in, but it outward flows. 
Can a pearl be left by the ebbing tide 
For a hand to grasp,— for a heart to hide, 

Or, when it takes its last long stride, 
Does it slip again to the quivering deep? 

I liken the ocean sometimes to life, — 
It has many moods for who can see ; 

It is torn by elements, men by strife, 

And it fumes and grows calm and seems so free,- 



The Soul's Day. 109 

Yet always is faced by a stretch of land. 

Wave succeeds wave, — men come and go ; — 

Thus ever in life an ebb and a flow, 
A glorious struggle to reach the high mark. 
The white crests tremble and break in the dark, 

Then the nude shore-line lies stiff and stark, 
And life seems a mirror, indeed, of sand. 

Thus ever I weave ; but at the week's end, 
I feel strength to bear, and I never groan ; 

I borrow from ease, and all care lend ; 

I stretch forth and soothe those who mumble and 
moan, — 

Those whose cross is a fever that never dies. 
I seek the deep wood, — and God seems near, 
And the soul uncoils from its bed of fear. 
Ah, earth is good tho' it shakes and twists — 
Tho' the valley be full of last week's mists. 
I count all my joys (and I have full lists), 

From the eagle's flight to the pale butterfly's. 

Content with a pencil of camel's hair, 
I lay on color and fashion a face ; 



HO Through Broken Reeds. 

The model sits still while I paint her there, 

Line for line and grace for grace, 
Till the soul shines out from the mass of flesh — 

Till the voice all but fills the parted lips. 

Which should one envy, the bee that sips 
From deep-red roses the hidden sweet, 
The jewelled dart whose wings swift beat 

Till the air is wrought to a fevered heat, 
Or the honey itself in the flower's mesh ? 

Who is void of words may be full of thought, 

Lacking but faith in the power of speech ; 
Or fearing the voice might draw too taut 

The moments of pleasure that round such reach. 
Thus do I sit in a world of flight, 

Leaning against my hand my head, 

Now pausing, now starting, while the soul's road-bed 
Lies pure and clear like the moonlight's gleam, 
That bathes hill and valley and silvers the stream 

With its broad, soft beauty. What if the night-hawk's 
scream 
Wakes tumbling echoes to build affright? 



The Soul 's Day. m 

To-morrow 's the day of days ; how still we'll dwell ; 

Clouds will scarce move thro' heaven's vault. 
Will earth turn and turn ? Will it rush pell-mell ? 

They tell us so — can they be at fault ? 

By some wise providence do all men grope in gloom, 
Betrayed by delicate instruments thro' paths that lie 
Far from the altar of true knowledge ? How men try 
To wrest from fiery points the truth of things, 
And if 'tis truth they learn, what comfort wings 
Into the awed bosom by such whisperings ? 

All things of earth find earth their tomb. 



112 Through Broken Reeds. 



A VIEW AT MIDNIGHT. 

DETWEEN the eye of night and earth 

The flimsy clouds hang — wonder-shapes ; 
Great shadows on the sea have birth, 

And each the other mocks and apes. 
Upon the hill that seems so dearth 

Of all the brightness of the land 

Alone in listless pose I stand, 
And watch the sloth-like moving lights 

Upon the ocean's bosom creep, 

And their long vigils brightly keep. 
All thro' the heaven's span in flights 

Lurk answering beams of tenderest ray, 

That show me where the dawning day 
Will steal the tresses of the night. 
Far more in dreams than out, my flight 

Of thought had massive tide of ebb and flow ; 

And all the hushed winds murmured low. 
Then thro' my paradise of dreams 



A View at Midnight. 113 

Sad ocean's sullen voice arose, 
And shot to sense swift, darting gleams 

That wakened me from my repose. 

I heard the sweeping wind that blows 
From cliff to cliff, and holds the spray 

Against the sheer of stubborn walls, 
And clips the shore along its way ; 

I heard it thro' the shrub that lolls 
Close to the brink of precipice 

Make moan, like death that often falls 
Amid the lonely fisher-huts 
That group upon the barren ruts, 

Which all the waves of ocean kiss. 
Once more it rang with strangest wail, 

And round about my feet it sped ; 

(It seemed as voices of the dead, 
That laughed and cried o'er some old tale). 
And made my inmost blood turn pale. 

I tried to smile away the fear, 

But louder grew the cries and drear, 
I felt myself a thing so frail. 
Here on the coast I seemed a wreck ; 

A stranded, wind-swept, useless thing, 



114 Through Broken Reeds. 

That had no place on earth to deck, 
Or hope to soothe my fluttering ; 

Yet even here there beamed a joy, 
Not born of sadness or of woe, — 
That I should breast the waves that flow, 

And for the ocean be a toy. 



A Hull. 115 



A HULL. 

YONDER lies the ship's gray hull, 

Half lost in the sand that sifts from day to day 
Through crevices innumerable. A solitary gull 
Broods o'er it from aloft and looks for prey. 

Twice, twixt dawn and dawn, the sea 

Falls round it, and the sturdy rocks 
Frown on the crumbling mass. Its old solidity 

Is yielding to the successive shocks. 

My soul is stranded on the shores of Love ; 

Old age frowns on it with a cold, blase eye ; 
Unheeding things surge round the quiet cove 

Wherein the crumbling hull doth lie. 



n6 Through Broken Reeds. 

Backward the dazed senses wing their flight, 
And skim the surface of youth's sun-lit sea ; 

Life is now sunless, born of moons and night, 
And dim reflections of a past maturity. 



A Face of Former Days. 117 



A FACE OF FORMER DAYS. 



T COME and sit near this old bridge, 
To hear the water gurgle by ? 
To watch that gem-like dragon-fly- 
Pass and repass o'er yonder ridge ? 



I come here often, morn and night ; 

Lean on my hand a thoughtful face ; 

To me this is a sacred place — 
A view that rests my tired sight. 

The moon from yonder hill is grand ; 
Thou wouldst not deem her in decay, 
If, glancing out across the bay 

You'd see her pathway on the strand. 



n8 Through Broken Reeds. 

From higher ground the starry view 
Holds enwrapt the gazers' mind, 
Enlarges thought, for there you'll find 

A thousand worlds to blink at you. 

These of themselves ought draw me here, 
Yet I scarce notice all they tell ; 
My sight is blurred — I simply dwell 

On scenes long past, yet seeming near. 

Can you see leaning 'gainst yon rail 
A childish form all clad in white ? 
No ! to me she comes there every night, 

A slender willow and as frail. 

She always stands there : see ! she smiles \ 
But I forgot, you cannot see ; 
Her little laughs are but for me 

To cheer the moments of grief's wiles. 

Thus, sir, do I seek this view 
To see a face of former days ; 
Old men like me may have strange ways 

Perhaps, when older, you'll have them too. 



A Face of Former Days. 1 19 

You think it fancy ? Well my friend, 
I'll not dispute you — have your say ; 
But mind, sir : your prose can never sway, — 

My life's a poem to the end. 



120 Through Broken Reeds. 



ON SEEING A PICTURE BY J. APPLETON 
BROWN. 

T T OW deep in nature's lore must artists dip 

To form such lights and shadows with a brush's 
tip! 
Oh, lovely day, made grander by white clouds ! 
One almost feels the shadow as it shrouds 

The virgin grass in splendid quiverings, 

Or hears the flap of yon spread goose's wings 
As slowly to the bath, stretch-necked, 
He leads the flock. 'Way off, the distance, Carot- 
like, is decked 

With stately elms whose cooling shade 

Around the rough old butts has made 

Havens of rest, where, from the day's bold eyes 
To dream is to know heaven ere one dies. 

O'er all pervades a sense of reverence ; 



On seeing a Picture by J. Applet on Brown. 1 2 1 

The boy who leans upon the bridge's fence 

Seems loth to stir, and tranced, idles all thought 
Upon the water's face. A bit of blue is caught 

And held as hostage at the pool's command. 

The very grass bows down, as though the hand 
Of nature with a fond caress 
Pressed gently and with tenderness. 

Deep in the shadow an old home stands, — 
Save where a sunbeam slips its leafy bands 
And falls upon it with a splendid glow, 
Enriching fact and fancy by a single blow. 
Pure doves rest on it, and with a gentle coo 
Chime the sweet woodland through and through. 
Such is the picture ; and I only ask, 
That oft may dear nature tempt the task, — 
That oft may she lure such true interpreters 
To deck a canvas with these smiles of her's 

Pause, sweet Enchantress, in thy dreamy moods, 

And have thy face, June-wreathed, greet multitudes ; 
Let those who know thee least have chance to spy 
The tender longings in thy radiant eye ; 

And those who know thee best — ah ! do they need 

A pictured semblance to intercede ? 



122 Through Broken Reeds. 



REFLECTED LOVE. 

TPHE soft impeachment of her down-cast eyes' sweet 
glance 
Fell on my face like some unconscious ray 
Of sunlight severed from the dying day, 

As with head half turned she watched me. O, the trance 

Which round her full lips' corners seemed to dance ! 
A smile suppressed, held checked, yet full of play, 
As in a roguish puppy's eye when most at bay, 

And watching every movement for a sudden chance ! 

My spirit knew thee, there, rolled the gross flesh back, 
And thy heart's book its holy secret spake. 

No mystic runes, — plain in its beaten track, 
Love reflected love for its own sake. 

There all thy nature melted without lack, 
As snow within the bosom of a lava lake. 



My Morning Walk. 123 



MY MORNING WALK. 

r\ GLORIOUS God-gift, this sweet scented air ! 
How good upon this level stretch to stand, 
And watch, low down upon the heaving strand, 

The day's bright eye ope up with matchless care. 

See ! yon sail 's afire ; crag and crested billow share 
The morning wine from God's lavish hand, 
That dips in beauty the ocean and the land, 

And leaves upon the mind, long after, a crimson flare. 

Who could grow weary drinking such as this, 
Or feel that life is vain with such grand sights 
Awaiting every morn the getting up ? 
What are to me my dreams of happiness 
With all the soaring round on lofty heights, 
When, at the earth's edge, such holiness I sup ? 



124 Through Broken Reeds. 



DRUSILLA. — A MEMORY. 

\ 17* HERE flowers bloomed in dark retreat 

Of perfumed wood, and young birds' cry 
Did echo where they warbled sweet 

And oft essayed their primary fly — 
'Twas here Drusilla loved to walk, 

Attuned to nature's inward tense, 
Embellished with the wild wood's talk 

In spicy fragrance for the sense. 

In sacerdotal reverence 

She held each roughly natured bough ; 
They wrought in her intelligence, 

Still pressed her not to make a vow, 
They opened wide their gems from yore 

And tossed to her from crests all plumed 
Till in her heart the elfish lore 

Of half the forest lay entombed. 



Drusi/la, — A Memory, 125 

And simple flowers near a silent pool 

Awoke deep longings in her child-like heart ; 
And oft she lingered on her way from school 

To seek their beauty from her mates apart. 
None could divine her distant, anxious looks, 

Nor tell what made her love the dark wood's 
gloom, 
Nor why a flower pleased her more than books, 

With its bare color and its rank perfume. 

Unknown to any save her eyes, where lay 

Love's fitful passion fondly placed ; 
And sweetest pleasure of his dreamy stay, 

Born of rich smiles and tender haste ; 
Shunned by the world, sequestered in the dark, 

Breathing but dolorous airs of ground, 
To her they were fairer than the songster lark, 

Whose melodies the clouds surround. 

She was all pliant to my every plea, 

And put to shame the pink of wayside rose ; 

Nor felt the slightest wish to up and flee 

When round her slender waist my arm would 
close. 



126 Through Broken Reeds. 

Her nestled head oft warmed my wind-chilled 
breast, 

And like deep wells her eyes my image held, 
And when against her own my lips I pressed 

Our very blood seemed by some witchery spelled. 

Close by a wood whose sombre sentinels ran 

In serried columns up a hill's steep side, 
And standing as firm as rock — a woodland clan, 

Boasting their prestige to the winds' chill pride, 
A little house all draped in climbing flowers, 

Caught the first shadows of descending night, 
As o'er the hill they came in quivering showers, 

Fading the landscape by their gentle flight. 

Here was her home ; and here at morn and eve 
Circled the mist across the valley's spread ; 

While from the tree-tops it was loth to leave, 
But wrapped around each sun-warmed, sun-kissed 
head. 

From here, along the upland path, at break of day, 
The huddling sheep like wind-pressed clouds did 



Drusilla. — A Memory, 127 

And straying behind, Drusilla, blithe alway, 
Trailing her tresses on the wind's sharp flow. 

Stole the shy deer from out their secret lair 

To drink their mild eyes full of her ; 
Or up the gay lark high, high in the air 

Smote the crisp day with sudden whir 
And song pure as the spring whose music bubbling 
went 

O'er pine-roots and o'er pebbles, then to plunge 
Down some long precipice of steep descent, 

And lay their trembling at its hasty lunge. 

Oft the fleet winds as couriers bore her songs 

Through the wood's aisles ; while the clear strains 
Woke to soft echo the feathered throngs 

Which dwelt all happy in the nectared lanes. 
Free was her soul from man's base touch, 

For but the lips of nature to her spoke ; 
Unknown the city's guiles and all things such, 

While passion slumbered till my love awoke. 

Unknown those massive piles whose buzzing walls 
instil 
Youth with middle life and middle life with age, 



128 Through Broken Reeds. 

Till all the flesh seems but a crumpled frill, 
And stamps life as a tattered, much-read page. 

Only the twilight of strong limbed pines 
Knew the glad music of her hurrying feet ; 

Only the wind that came from bosky shrines 
Knew the low trillings of her songs complete. 

I had been lost amid the cloud- touched hills, 

Cheated in distance by some bird's song, 
Lured from my path, beguiled by sweet-lipped rills, 

Till, ere I guessed it, ranged the shadows long. 
Low in the west the night-pushed daylight played, 

Splendid in color, as the prism's flash gem- 
decked ; 
When from some hill's far crest there strayed 

The music of a song as richly flecked. 

Softly it floated, and, as a spider's bridge 

That rises and falls upon each eddying breath, 

Through the stilled air from ridge to ridge, 
It came as gently as the flight of Death. 

Quick did I seize ! o'er paths bough-strewn I sped, 
Hoping ere long to reach the welcome voice, 



Drusilla. — A Memory. 129 

And from the darkening woods to be diswed, 
And thank the singer with a deep rejoice. 

Surely some power to me its swiftness lent ! 

And soon the distance behind me lay ; 
While all my senses were alert, and bent 

I dodged the branches of the sylvan way. 
Till suddenly before me, from out the shade 

I saw her stepping like a robber bold, 
And, ere I knew it, from my heart I paid 

Love's highest cravings with affection's gold. 

She came and by my side she stood, 

In all the tender grace of unknown fear ; 
Oh how I worshipped her young womanhood, 

Which never yet had nursed life's bitter tear. 
Deep in my soul her budding graces lay, 

While every word brought forth a perfumed wave, 
Which came like ripples speeding o'er a bay, 

Or echoes falling through an ocean cave. 

Longingly I looked, unwilling to depart ; 
And dreaming gazed upon her face 



130 Through Broken Reeds. 

Where lay the musings of a simple heart 
As plainly as vein-lines could trace. 

Her eyes' rare glance I still do see, 
So childlike in their calm content ; 

And oft I seek immunity 

From earth and men in wonderment. 

She was my life, and when she passed away 

Within the new-earthed grave two hearts were 
placed ; 
Two hearts beneath yon granite shaft still lay; 

Above, in peace, two hands are traced. 
Death cannot part, nor years make dim 

The love which through our young blood sped ; 
And still through vistas strange we swim, 

I of the living, she — of the dead. 



At Loves Board. 131 



AT LOVE'S BOARD. 

A LAS ! poor Love, that you and I should choose, 
"^ Our tender memories for reflection's food ; 

That, of all viands, these should first intrude, 
To choke with bitter sobs the heart's recluse, 

Alas ! that all our former days should seek this use : 
To bring old pleasures with their limbs all nude, 
And make in Time a moment's interlude, 

Where we might know it all, nor potent to refuse. 

Thus 'round Love's board we sup our cup of fate, 
And eat the wormy food that Time has made. 

Thus do we sigh and dream. Alas ! too late 
To plant with roses where our hopes were laid, 1 
For see ! the hour has vanished, and tho' men prate, 

Down the dim distance tramps the long parade. 



132 Through Broken Reeds. 



MY INHERITANCE. 



^vFTEN, O God, I feel that some deep curse 
Is my inheritance from some dim ancestry, 

Who from thy ordained paths did stray, 
And of thy precepts failed to act as nurse. 
Teach me if wrong ; and teach me to rehearse 

Day after day thy blest commands, and pray. 

Fill me with heaven's fire, that I may not delay, 
But all thy blessings gladly, widely disburse. 



Oft pride's cold ear is turned to me, 
And, as an asp, her scornful lips reply. 

Because my raiment breathes of poverty, 

And does not meet the taste of fashion's eye, 

Must all my life be buried 'neath the sea, 
And crushed, unknown, a god-soul die ? 



The Killing of the Elk. 133 



THE KILLING OF THE ELK. 

P AR to the West where dazzling waters 
In the sunlight gleamed and played, 
Hemmed by deepest forest shade, 
By whose banks elk often strayed, 

Came at even, sons and daughters 
Of the Sioux, and near it stayed. 

Late into the twilight staying, 

Till the moon's pale lingering flame, 
O'er the waters whence it came 
Sprinkled on the tide its name ; 

With the waters ever playing 

All night long it seemed the same. 

While beneath the wild ash bending, 
As the breeze swept o'er the lake, 
And the moon still showed its wake, 



134 Through Broken Reeds. 

As from out the dark cloud's break, 
Softly still it came descending, 
Where the leaves did whirl and shake, 

Where upon the shore's soft gray sand, 
Weaving deftly and with skill, 
Laughing, chatting, weaving still, 
Now with bright beads then with quill, 

Sat the Sioux maids, ever fanned 
By the breeze from o'er the hill. 

All alone with work before her, 
By a torn root in the shade, 
Whose white arms had ever made 
Squaw and pappoose half afraid, 

Sat the handsome Indiora 
Where the shadows leaped and played, 

Calm-eyed, dark-eyed ; rippling laughter 
Stranger than the cuckoo's note 
On the waters seemed to float 
Often near though still remote ; 

And the wild birds all came after 
One shrill call from out her throat. 



The Killing of the Elk. 135 

Round about her beaded, lithe form, 

Worked in patterns strangely queer, 

Hung with beads and bits of deer, 

Leaving all her bosom clear, — 
Was her robelet snug and warm : 

Sat she there all free from fear. 

Indiora, Queen of Starlight, 

Dusky maiden of the Sioux, 

Sparkling as the morning dew, 

All her nature grand and true ; 
Sat she thus into the far night, 

Watching as the night winds blew. 

On the water far across 

In the distance gleaming bright 

Dimly moving was a light 

Looking star-like in the night. 
On the water did it toss, 

Rising, falling, in its flight. 

Nearer came it gleaming brightly, 
While the sound of dipping oar 
Faintly to the ear came o'er, 



136 Through Broken Reeds. 

From the dark lake's frothy floor ; 
Then came she a-tripping lightly- 
Down upon the moist sand shore. 

While behind a cloud safe hidden, 
Half offering with its rays a flout, 
Lingering in a sullen pout, 
Was the full moon peering out. 

Then from out the gloom unbidden 
Loomed a shadow clear and stout. 

Standing etched against the dim light, 
Like a spectre from the dead, 
Tossing on the wild lake's bed 
Where our ghosts can only tread, 

Was the warrior Equeinwight, 

Who from many wounds had bled. 

'Long the shore with paddle flying 
Came the mighty warrior bold, 
Splashing high the waters cold, — 
Waters by sea-nymphs controlled, 

Till upon the shore espying 

She whose hand he fain would hold ; 



The Killing of the Elk. 137 

Then turned he his rocking birch-bark, 

Rocking with the surging deep, 

On the sea caps would it leap, 

Like some sea-genii 'twould keep 
Rising, falling, in the dark, 

Till it grated at her feet. 

And they stood there on the lake's shore 

Dimly outlined in the shade, 

Where the torn root often made 

Hideous shapes which danced and played ; 
Where the leaves did fall before 

Winds which through the branches strayed. 

Till the maiden whispered kindly, 

Dropping voice to tender awe : 

" Hast to-day the White Elk saw, 

Hast thou followed close the law 
That the Father taught not blindly, 

Hast thou followed with no flaw ? " 

" Equeinwight has a brave's heart, — 
Richer pelts hath crossed his track ; 
Slower beasts would fill his sack, 



138 Through Broken Reeds. 

But to them he turned his back ; 

Straight and flawless passed his part, 

Nor paused he his thirst to slack. 

11 On the morrow and the morrow, 
Every day I'll seek again, 
Through the timber, on the plain, 
Till the ghost-like elk is slain ; 

And the wind shall bear our sorrow, 
And the moaning waves our pain. 

" Each night will we fill the quiver, 
And when dawn breaks I will go 
Forth into its budding glow, 
Forth to hear the new winds blow ; 

And I'll scan all things that shiver 
In the pathway of its flow. 

" Ah, my poor one, we have waited, 
Seen each cloudless day by sail, 
Heard the low-toned winds make sigh 
As they moved afar and nigh, 

And, O Father, it seems fated 

That thy children's hope must die. 



The Killing of the Elk. 139 

" For each day has Equeinwight 

Sought to pierce the pale elk's breast ; 

And he's neither asked for rest 

Nor for help to gain his quest ; 
While in perfect faith each night 

Has the eagle sought his nest. 

"But thou knowest, O Great Spirit! 

That slow Time can never stay ; 

That all moments fade away 

As the snows on each new May. 
And my soul begins to fear it 

Will not know its perfect day." 

Spoke he thus, the chieftain's son, 

To the maiden at his side, 

To his promised future bride, 

To the maid who held his pride ; 
Yet before the prize he won 

Must the White Elk yield his hide. 



140 Through Broken Reeds. 

Travellers tell that when the winds blow 
Fierce from out the depths unknown, 
That on every breath is blown 
First a loud shout, then a groan ; 

Then they die away and grow 
Like an echoing bugle's tone. 

Still the sunlight clasps the waters, 
From the banks elk sometimes drink, 
From the torn root lovers shrink ; 
Still the ash bends o'er the brink, 

And, at even, sons and daughters 

Weave strange garments link by link. 

Sometimes voices as in illness 

On the moist sand shore are heard, 

Cries as of an injured bird ; 

And light footsteps oft have stirred 
Leaves and grasses in the stillness 

Where young Love would breathe a word. 



Holy Kisses, 141 



HOLY KISSES. 

/"^VNLY the night befriends, 

Only the cool winds of day's shadow- 
Eases the toil-stained brow. 
Sweet, then, is the twilight ! 
A moment it struggles upon the panes 
Then passeth away. 
Here in the house on the hill, 

Where elms gently tap at the window, asking admittance, 
I sit, and listen to all of night's voices. 
Far down the silent street a footstep is coming, 
And farther still, and fainter, soundeth the bell of the 
ferry. 

Here from the rush of the day 

A haven is found from its heat, — here all is quiet. 

Past is all strife, till the morrow 



142 Through Broken Reeds. 

Cometh with glare and with dazzle ; 
Past from me the world and its mighty contortions ; 
Past away all save recollection, 

For deep in my heart the sweetness of dreamland is 
brilliant. 

Yet only the winds have whispered, 

Only the scents of June 

Steal through the tightly drawn curtains, 

Only the babble of peaceful existence is strident without. 

Now the breath of the elm is melted and softened, 
And o'er me is wafted the pine's and the hemlock's 

aroma. 
There, in the shadow before me, 
With eyes warmed to holy compassion, 
Resteth the form of a loved one. 
Tears blindeth the vision so grateful, 
Inward a flood rolleth downward, 
While afar, in a world invisible 
Burneth brightly the hope of a meeting 
When Death shall have severed all earth-ties. 
Yet only a memory is present, 



Holy Kisses. 143 

Which the eye of the mind perceiveth ; 

Only the breath of the forest 

Hath conjured from out of its bosom, 

An hour of childhood, a moment of pleasure ; 

While soft on my lips and sweet 

Fall the kisses of Mother. 






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